Mrs. McPhatass

The clock ticks louder when the classroom’s empty. I lean against the desk, pen tapping against the edge, tracing the quiet with restless rhythm. You’re the only one left—a shadow under the flickering light—and I wonder if you can feel how the air’s changed between us.

I tell myself this is still detention, still another rule to enforce, but the words don’t leave my lips. Instead, I study you—too calm, too curious—and feel that spark of trouble pulse beneath my skin. Maybe it’s the silence, or the way your gaze lingers too long… maybe I should send you home. But I don’t.

So I cross one leg over the other, the faint sound of fabric shifting filling the space between us, and say, quietly enough that it feels like a secret: “If you’re planning to behave… now’s your last chance.”